


the first date

by Em11134



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alice is a Southside Serpent, Beta-read, Blossom Family Dynamics, Clifford is a Creep, Could any story be more niche?, Crushes, FP is Big Man on Campus, First Dates, Fred is a stoner with a heart of gold, Friend Group Dynamics, Friends to Lovers (Pre-Relationship), Gen, Mary is the mom friend, Multi, Penelope is a Goth, Sierra is the female version of a Fuckboy, The Shaggin’ Wagon, Thornhill, Warning for: gratuitous 80’s/90’s pop culture references & art history references, and Thornhill is Peak Riverdale Darkness, in which:, parentdale, the Fredheads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14792897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em11134/pseuds/Em11134
Summary: Between schoolwork, Debate Club, the Blue & Gold, and keeping her friends out of trouble, fifteen-year-old Mary is too busy to think much about romance. So when she starts feeling like someone is staring at her, she never considers the culprit is a boy with a crush. Once Fred points it out, Alice gets to meddling, and that’s how Mary ends up on her very first date: having tea at Thornhill Manor with Clifford Blossom.Will the enigmatic Clifford turn out to be the boy of her dreams? Or is the boy of her dreams someone she already knows like the back of her hand?





	the first date

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thank yous to village-skeptic for betaing a draft of this for me (and calling out my atrocious overuse of commas) and to flwrpotts for talking through these characters. <3 Any errors are mine.
> 
> Trigger warnings: canon-typical alcohol and drug abuse, brief mentions of past genocide, brief mentions of the existence of societal lesbophobia and racism, mild self-inflicted violence.
> 
> This story takes place when Mary, Fred, FP, Penelope, Clifford, Alice and Hermione are 15. Hiram and Sierra are 17. I moved the Jubilee back 1 year (2016 instead of 2017) so that it could occur in this story. FP is not yet a Southside Serpent.

Riverdale High School 

Fall, 1991

Monday

Mary shifts in her seat and pulls her grey bowler hat protectively over her ears. She’s trying to concentrate on her half-finished outline, but it’s no use; she’s too distracted by the prickly sensation at the nape of her neck. She’s been feeling it more and more often lately, this sensation of being watched: when she’s bending to catch a pencil rolling across the Biology classroom, when she’s doing pull ups in the gym, when she’s sharing onion rings with Hermione at Pop’s. She doesn’t like it. 

She mentioned it to Fred as they walked to school together this morning, but he didn’t seem concerned. 

“Maybe someone has a crush on you,” he suggested in that new, gravelly voice of his.

“That’s silly. No one’s ever had a crush on me,” she said.

“Untrue!“ he replied cheekily. “Milton Doiley, remember? At the Valentine’s pageant?” 

”Third grade crushes don’t count!” she laughed.

“Didn’t he give you candy? And write you a poem?”

This is the problem with having the same friends since birth: there’s no forgetting anything, Mary thought. To Fred, I’m still that eight year old with lopsided pigtails, the one who cried from shyness when a boy recited her a poem. And to me, Fred’s still the seven year old with missing teeth, the one who tripped over his feet unless I tied his shoelaces for him.

She groaned theatrically. “Yeah, he wrote an ode to my beautiful blue eyes.”

“But your eyes are brown.”

She snorted. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hey, at least he tried. If writing a love poem is anything like writing a love song, it isn’t easy.”

Before Fred could expound further on the challenges of writing his latest tribute to Hermione Reyes, they were interrupted by FP shouting, “FREDDY BOY!” 

FP bounded up behind them and slung his arm around Fred’s shoulder. Fred and Mary frowned in unison when they noticed that his knuckles were bruised and scabbed, then shared an anxious look. Fred shook his head and mouthed, “Not now,” just as FP pulled him into a headlock. 

Alice, in a short royal blue dress and artfully ripped black tights, was a few steps behind them, rolling her eyes.

“Who’s writing love poems?” FP asked.

“Doiley, third grade.” 

FP let out a bark of laughter, slapping his thigh. “Aww, man. I gave him so much hell for that.” 

“You gave everybody hell, FP. You were the class bully. You always have been,” Alice said.

“Oh, you know you give as good as you get!” FP replied, snapping his bubblegum in a way that was somehow both taunting and flirtatious.

Alice raised her eyebrow, and Mary sighed. FP and Alice, treating every interaction as a game of chicken, appeared to be gearing up for a knock down, drag out argument or dirty banter. Mary was attuned to the warning signs at this point. Fred must’ve felt the same, because he interrupted to tell them about Mary’s admirer.

FP immediately gave suggestions about his identity (“Waldo Weatherbee!” “Janitor Svenson!”), mostly for Fred’s amusement. Not that it takes much to amuse Fred these days, what with his propensity to wake and bake. Usually by that point Mary would have already cracked a few Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure jokes at the boys’ expense. But she was focused on Alice, who hadn’t said a word about Mary’s mystery man. She’s too quiet, Mary thought. Something’s brewing.

Fortunately, before Alice could give her two cents (which, knowing her, could be anything from “Oh, please, Mary’s school superlative should be ‘Most Likely To Die A Virgin’” to “Finally, a sign that the boys are developing some taste instead of chasing after uptight trolls like Vicky Varner.”), they were interrupted by a couple of freshmen congratulating FP on the football win. Mary gave silent thanks for her friend’s reputation as Big Man on Campus.

Now, she wonders if there isn’t something more sinister at work. It’s kind of creepy to stare at a girl all the time, isn’t it? Why not just say hello? After all, compared to her friends, she’s probably the least threatening girl to have a crush on. She’s not a glamorous and impenetrable River Vixen like Hermione, a tough and sarcastic Serpent like Alice, or an elegant and formidable class President like Sierra. She’s just smart, dependable Mary, generally well-liked but not quite exciting enough to be considered one of the in-crowd.

To tell the truth, she’d probably say yes to just about anyone who asked her out-even nerdy Waldo Weatherbee. She’s never been on a real one-on-one romantic date-or even kissed a boy. And she’s curious, in an academic sort of way. Her mantra has been, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” since she first heard the phrase; she certainly finds her schedule full enough without a boyfriend. But she wonders sometimes if she isn’t missing out on some critical formative experience. 

The lunchtime bell rings, interrupting her reverie. She walks to the cafeteria, trying her best to weave past the crowd. She’s not quite fast enough: a couple of rough-housing Bulldogs knock her straight into Penelope, and the thread of her oversized plaid cardigan catches on the sharp metal leg of Penelope’s brooch. 

“Oh, jeez. I’m so sorry!” she says, trying to dislodge herself.

“Watch where you’re going, you frumpy little nobody,” Penelope snaps.

Mary, typically too sensible to worry much about the mood swings of high school mean girls, feels a spike of nervousness. Penelope is certainly dressed to intimidate: her black dress is accessorized with a black studded choker, black lace fingerless gloves, a red enamel brooch in the shape of a spider, and Siouxsie Sioux-inspired eyepaint. But it’s not the clothing that Mary finds offputting, it’s the taller girl’s glare, which contains far more rage than the situation warrants. 

“Be careful with that. My spider brooch probably costs more than your parents’ house.”

“Everything alright over here?” asks Sierra, as Mary finally untangles the knot. She looks pristine in a pinstripe pencil skirt and form-fitting green sweater, and far more professional than the average seventeen year old.

The words are for Mary, but her eyes remain fixed on Penelope. Penelope’s imperious expression cracks open, and for a moment so brief that Mary thinks she must have imagined it, she looks wistful and heartbroken. She sniffs and stomps away on oxblood Doc Martens. 

Sierra does not acknowledge the strange tension between them, falling into step besides Mary to ask, “How’s that article going? I need to read it before I can write my Jubilee speech.” 

“It’s going. I’ll be done in no time, I promise.” Mary’s week is already packed: she has a rebuttal to write for Debate Club, an Algebra quiz to study for, and a movie review of Cape Fear by Hal Cooper to proofread for the B&G. But she’ll find a way to make it work. She always does.

Sierra gives a curt nod and a flash of what Mary thinks of as her “politician’s smile,” beautiful and yet completely devoid of genuine human feeling.

“I’m sure it will be excellent as always. I’m eager to read it,” she says as she saunters away. 

Mary strolls into the cafeteria towards the table she shares with the boys (Hermione used to join them, but now she spends lunch period fawning over Hiram Lodge.) Today, Alice is sitting there by herself. Mary is surprised, since lately the blonde rarely leaves the Serpent section unless FP is around to flirt or fight with. But FP and Fred are chatting up the girls at other tables while they pass out flyers for Friday’s Battle of the Bands: the Fredheads vs. Penny & the Scales.

Alice has her headphones on, and is tapping her red nails rhythmically against her battered Discman. The lid is covered in stickers: a bouquet of pink and yellow roses, a green snake, and the word “Sassy” (Mary has never been certain whether it’s a reference to the teen magazine, the Hole song, Alice herself, or all three.) Alice snaps to attention when she spots Mary, pulling off her headphones and shaking out her voluminous blonde curls. 

Then Alice leans forward. Uh, oh, Mary thinks. I know that look. 

She’s got a smug expression that says she’s been sowing chaos. Some noteworthy past examples include: the time she slashed the tires of the boy who called her a “white trash whore” outside the Gas-and-Go, the time she elbowed a prettier girl out of the way at a concert so she’d be lifted onstage to dance, and the time she pulled the fire alarm on test day. That face usually means Mary is going to be either scandalized or disappointed (and that Mary needs to do damage control.) 

Don’t assume the worst, Mary reminds herself. Alice has a softer side-buried deep though it may be. Somewhere in there is the girl who loved to play “Miss Betty Crocker” with Mary’s E-Z Bake Oven. 

“Guess what I did today?” Alice asks with a smirk.

Mary forces lightness into her tone. “Got sent to the Principal’s office for violating the dress code?”

Alice waves her hand. “Of course, but you know I don’t care about that. I got you a date! Today. After football practice.”

“What?! I already told you. I won’t be doubling anymore with you and whichever Southsider you’ve strong-armed into it. Those don’t even count as dates, by the way. I’m pretty sure an actual date wouldn’t spend the whole time trying to get a glimpse down your shirt. He’d be too busy trying to see down mine.” 

“I can’t help that my tits are better than yours.”

“Or your shirts are just cut lower,” Mary says. Alice barks out a laugh. “I’ll pass. Besides, I have to read up on the history of Riverdale for this B&G article.”

Alice’s grin is positively gleeful. “Even better! Kill two mice with one snakebite. You can research and be romanced at the same time!”

“Oh no…Is this one of FP’s pranks on Milton and Waldo or one of the other nerds?”

“Of course not! It’s a real date. And the date’s with Clifford Blossom.”

Mary’s jaw drops. “Why would Clifford Blossom go out with me? We’ve talked twice in all the years we’ve gone to school together.”

“He’s your secret admirer! At first, I thought he was just being his usual weirdo robot self, staring at you all the time. But this morning, it clicked: He’s got a huge crush! I cornered him in Study Hall and he admitted it.” 

“If he’s such a weirdo robot, why should I go out with him?” 

Mary looks to where Clifford is sitting two tables over with Floyd Clayton and half the football team. Sure enough, he’s already watching her. She offers a tentative smile, and his mouth twitches as he responds with an oddly regal nod. Ricky Mantle says something that makes the guys burst into shouts and laughter, and Mary takes advantage of Clifford’s distraction to eye him consideringly. 

He’s handsome enough, she supposes: tall and strong, with clear skin, always neatly dressed in sweaters and khakis and Sperrys. Until last year, he wore his ginger hair in a fluffy, layered ‘do like James Spader’s. But she figures that was an attempt to differentiate himself from Claudius (who had a buzzcut), because he came back to school this year with a shorter, more flattering style. If he was a stranger she met at a party, she’d probably hope he’d flirt with her.

But he’s not a stranger. He’s been at the periphery of her life since kindergarten, and he’s made no effort to befriend her at any point in the past decade. 

Maybe I’m being unfair, she thinks. It took Lloyd Dobbler four years to work up the nerve to ask out Diane Court in Say Anything. And that was romantic. 

And what does she actually know about him, after all? She only knows his reputation: that he’s rich, that he’s at the top of the class in math, that he plays football, that the jocks call him “Ice Man.” She knows he seems somewhat removed even at the center of a crowd. She knows he was the quiet, watchful shadow behind his boisterous and charismatic brother, who was the first freshman to make Varsity football captain in Riverdale history. 

But now his brother is gone, missing and presumed dead. Clifford has been all alone this year. She feels a twinge of sympathy. Poor guy, she thinks. Maybe it’s grief that’s made him too shy to approach her. Maybe he feels alone in a crowd in the same way that she does, frustrated with the petty fighting and childish antics of the other kids their age.

“You should go out with him because he’s the sole heir to the Blossom maple syrup fortune, obviously. His family runs this town,” Alice says, voice dripping with condescension.

“I don’t care about stuff like that. And since when do you?” 

Alice’s expression stiffens, and Mary furrows her brow, confused at the sudden tension. But then Alice laughs, waves her hand, and says, “If a Blossom falls for you, you’re set for life. Remember those gaudy diamond earrings Hiram gave Hermione for her birthday? You’ll get jewelry even more expensive than that! I bet they have heirloom shit, like Princess Di wears. My friend Hog Eye knows a fence in Greendale. We can sell them and split the profits. Instant college fund.”

Mary laughs despite herself. 

“And hey! Who knows? Maybe he’s a sweetheart underneath. Boys can have hidden depths.” Alice continues, “Besides, there’s no better source on the founding of Riverdale than a Blossom. Get him to give you a private tour of that Addams’ Family mansion of theirs and you’ll definitely finish the article in no time at all.”

She has to admit, it has a practical appeal. She does derive a thrill from multi-tasking. And like Alice says: Who knows? Maybe they’ll really like each other. Maybe they’ll fall in love. 

“Ok,” Mary says decisively “I’ll do it.”

——————————————————————-  
She doesn’t share any afternoon classes with Clifford, so she plans to search him out on the football field. But he’s already leaning against her locker when she walks out of the Debate Club. He doesn’t smile or even say hello, but there’s something awestruck in his eyes when he looks at her. That must be a good sign. 

“Hi,” she says, smiling encouragingly at him. “How was football practice?”

“Fine.”

She waits a beat, but he doesn’t elaborate. It’s already clear she’s going to have to take the reins of this social interaction. “So…Alice said you were interested in hanging out. Did you have anything particular in mind?”

“I’d like to invite you to Thornhill for tea.” 

“Oh, ok….that sounds perfect.” She pauses, weighing her next words. She doesn’t want to come off as mercenary or unromantic. But she plows forward anyway, figuring it’s better to be honest. 

“I actually wondered if I might pick your brain about this article I’m writing for the Blue & Gold. It’s about the founding of Riverdale. I thought you might have some family lore to share.”

His blue eyes widen, and he even smiles a little. She’s never seen him so animated. 

“I’d be delighted.” He links his arm with hers in a courtly gesture that makes her think of an Austen novel, and leads her to his Jaguar convertible, opening the door and guiding her in. My very first date, she thinks. It’s going to be one for the books.

When he turns the key, an R.E.M. song she likes is on the radio, so she opens her mouth to compliment his music taste. But before she can get a word out, Clifford launches into a monologue about matriarch Hortense Blossom, who was widowed on the Mayflower voyage. Pregnant when she arrived on American soil, she gave birth to the first American Blossom right there in Plymouth. Mary interjects occasionally to ask questions, but it’s family trivia that keeps the conversation flowing until Clifford drives onto Thornhill grounds. Mary notes the stylized “B” surrounded by scrollwork that adorns the black iron gate guarding the manor.

Clifford parks in the free-standing garage, which Mary is mildly alarmed to note is bigger than her family home. It contains a fleet of luxury cars-a Cadillac, a BMW, even a Rolls Royce-all painted in the same cherry-red as the Jaguar.

“The color is custom,” Clifford says when he notices her gaze.

He indicates that she remain seated until he open the car door, and she can’t help but be charmed by his chivalry. It’s a far cry from a ride with Fred and FP in Fred’s rickety brown station wagon (which she steadfastly refuses to ever, ever call the “Shaggin’ Wagon”). 

In the brief time it takes them to park, the weather has turned gray and misty. Clifford offers an umbrella, but she waves him off, insisting her hat and blue nylon jacket are protection enough. He looks at her askance but doesn’t object, taking her arm and guiding her along the path towards the main house, an imposing structure of red brick and dark gray stone. 

In the distance, she spots a stable, a barn, and a greenhouse. I feel like a character from Wuthering Heights or Rebecca, she thinks, in a moment of whimsy.

The rain seems to be getting heavier the closer they get to the house, so they rush to the covered entrance. Mary openly marvels at the massive front door, inscribed with a maple tree and the words “Radices Currere Abyss.”

“The family motto,” Clifford explains, as he turns the key in the lock, “is ‘Roots Run Deep.’”

As she enters the manor, her first impression is of shadow. The walls are papered in grey damask and the wood furniture is stained a glossy dark brown. A multitude of silver candelabras and a hanging chandelier are not enough to brighten the room. 

Clifford helps her out of her jacket and hangs it on a bronze coat rack in the shape of a stylized tree. He turns back to her, staring expectantly, an intense light in his eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“I’m waiting for you to take off your hat.” Mary hands it to him, and he watches reverently as she shakes out her damp mop of hair before tossing the hat on a bronze branch. She can hear the wind picking up speed, whistling through the trees. 

“Let me tell Cook there’s a third for tea,” he says, striding off without waiting for her to respond. 

Shrugging, she decides to explore. She runs a finger down the gleaming banister of the grand staircase. She sniffs a lush bouquet of red roses in a bottle-green glass vase. There are several oil paintings on the wall, the centerpiece depicting a woman in a white nightgown reclining in a canopy bed. An odalisque, Mary assumes. 

She walks over for a closer look and discovers that the woman is hanging half-off the mattress, her blonde curls brushing the floor, immobilized by the grotesque creature seated on her chest. A floating black horse observes the tableau. Unnerved, Mary turns away, relieved to find that the next painting is a prosaic nature scene: a red stag in a yellow forest.

“I see you like art,” Clifford says from behind her, making her jolt.

“Oh, yes, I-“

“We still have a half-hour until teatime. Let me show you to the Portrait Gallery.” He grasps her elbow again, leading her down a winding hall. She hears a rhythmic creaking sound following their footsteps. It’s just the old house settling in the damp, she tells herself. 

There’s a rumble of thunder and the sound of water lashing against the stones. A grandfather clock in the corner lets out an abrasive series of chimes. The B insignia she noted on the gate appears again on the crown of the clock. It’s bookended by a pair of scowling, underfed cherubs with bows and arrows. 

Clifford pauses so she can observe the Roman marble statue in the opposite corner. It depicts a woman trying to escape the grasping hands of two burly, bearded men. “The Rape of the Sabine Women,” he explains.

Ok. Mary is not normally a judgmental sort of girl. She understands that different strokes suit different folks. But she cannot fathom why the Blossoms have decorated their house this way. How does a person relax here? How do you lounge around in a ratty T-shirt watching Charles In Charge, with a grandfather clock clanging every half-hour? How does a kid have a birthday party with paper hats and ice cream cake and Raffi songs, with all this creepy artwork on the wall? And is no one concerned that all these candles are a fire hazard? 

She tries to fix a smile on her face so he won’t sense her true feelings. After all, it isn’t Clifford’s fault his house gives her the heebie-jeebies. It’s not like he decorated the place himself.

“Do you need your pen and notepad?” he asks. “We’re approaching the family portrait gallery.” 

Mary retrieves a yellow memo pad from the pocket of her pleated brown skirt. She pulls a golf pencil from the metal spiral, flips to a blank page, and nods for him to begin

And he does, with far more energy than he’s ever demonstrated during class presentations. She can’t help be a bit enthralled by the sudden passion in his voice.

“Here is my great-great-great-grandmama Ester Blossom and her twin, Ezekiel,” he says, pointing to a painting of a pair of dour gingers, one in a white mop cap and black dress, the other in a military uniform. “She is said to have been the first to foresee, in a vision, that our destiny would be tied to the maple. This was painted by Gilbert Stuart, who is best known for The Lansdowne Portrait of George Washington.”

“In a vision? She saw the maple syrup business in a vision?” 

“Yes,” he says, rushing her past a more modern portrait of teenage twins. They wear gauzy white dresses, and the red fox pelts (head, tail, and feet still attached) wrapped around their dainty necks match the color of their hair.

“And here are Josephine Blossom and her twin Delphynia,” he says, nodding towards a portrait of two auburn-haired women dressed in puffy layers of violet silk. “Blossom sisters rarely marry, but Delphynia wed Sir Dudley Marjoribanks, 1st Baron Tweedmouth. Josephine became a great patron of the arts because of how often she visited England to see her twin. Every trip, she brought back another artist or architect. They designed the Riverdale Court House, Post Office, and Public Library. This likeness was painted by Giovanni Boldini.”

“And of course, here is Great-Great-Grandpappy Barnabas B. Blossom,” he says, pointing to the portrait of yet another redhead on the back of a chestnut horse, holding a bow and arrow. 

Mary chokes trying to stifle a laugh at the word “grandpappy.” 

“It was he and his dear friend, General Augustus Pickens, who were truly responsible for the Riverdale we know today. My father was named after Augustus, you know. And here you can see the swords they used to cut down the Uktena. We used to play generals and Indians with them, when I was a boy, me and-.” A bolt of thunder sounds.

Mary waits until it passes before asking, “What’s a Uktena?” 

“The Natives here. It was Barnabas and Augustus who removed them from the land so that the maple trees could flourish. And when the trees flourish, the town flourishes. Then came the railroad and the brothel and all the rest.”

Mary is starting to feel nauseous. “You mean they killed them? And stole their land?” It’s one thing to read about the Trail of Tears in class, where everyone at least pretends to maintain a solemn air. But Clifford is very obviously proud of this lineage. He played games with murder weapons like they were toys.

Now she’s second-guessing every nice thought she had about him this afternoon. Maybe he’s not a sensitive, grieving boy in need of a friend or a pining Lloyd Dobbler. Maybe he seems alone in a crowd because he’s callous and strange. Maybe he likes living among images of gargoyles and killers.

She’s got to get out of this spooky house and far away from this spooky boy. 

Blithely unaware of her discomfort, Clifford answers, “Yes, of course-.” The clock chimes. “Ah, teatime.” 

Before she has a chance to object, he’s pulling her by the elbow into a dining room. The glass table is decorated with yet another silver candelabra and bouquet of red roses. There is a red chinoiserie tea set laid out besides a five-tiered tray of sweets.

And behind the tea tray sits a skinny women in her late forties. She has pale skin and elaborately teased hair the exact shade of Mary’s, except for a single white streak at her brow. 

“You must be the girl my Cliffie has told me so much about,” she says, giving Mary a singularly unimpressed once-over. “I’m Mrs. Blossom.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mary says politely. “I’m-“

“Serve her, my dear,” the older woman interrupts.

“Yes, Mama,” Clifford pronounces the final “a” with an affected lilt.

He fixes Mary a cup of tea with cream and sugar. I doesn’t even like milk in my tea, Mary fumes. Should I bother saying something? Or just keep my mouth shut until I can leave?

Meanwhile, Mrs. Blossom is observing her, looking more pinched by the minute. Her voice is strained when she insists, “Help yourself to a maple cookie or a maple scone.”

Clifford reaches for a maple leaf-shaped sandwich cookie as Mary says, “No, actually, I don’t care for maple syrup. I prefer savory foods.” 

Clifford drops the cookie.

All the candles in the room flicker at once.

Mrs. Blossom pushes away from the table and wheels herself into an adjoining room without acknowledging her guest. She makes a sharp gesture for her son to join her, and he follows with a single longing look back. Mary realizes that the rhythmic creaking that followed them as they toured the house was Mrs. Blossom’s wheelchair. What an awful snoop! she thinks.

She can hear them shouting, but their words are muffled by the walls and the storm. Mary isn’t particularly interested in whatever they have to say. She just wants to find a telephone so she can call someone to pick her up. Under no circumstances is she spending one more minute than necessary in this house of horrors.

She pokes her head through the first doorway she sees. There is no phone in sight, just row after row of jewels on red velvet cushions: diamond tiaras and garnet pendants and gold brooches and rings. Any other day, she’d take notes to better describe it to Alice, but right now she just wants to escape. 

She pads down the hall, hearing the shouting get louder. They must be nearby, she thinks. Her pace gets slower and she takes light steps on her tiptoes.

“-don’t want to date Penelope, Mama! She wears black lipstick and too much eyeliner. And the music she likes is just lots of banging and keening.”

“Pish! That’s mere aesthetics and easily fixed. You’d rather leave me with the impossible task of transforming that little peasant into the Lady of the Manor? I think not. I saw her shaking the rain out of her hair like some kind of wet sheepdog. She didn’t appreciate your tale of our victory over the Uktena, either. But, as usual, you were too much of an imbecile to recognize social cues in time to change course. And she doesn’t like maple?! No, it’s unthinkable. She’s not for you.”

“Mary’s nice, quiet. Agreeable. She listens to me. And her hair is prettier. Penelope’s is a shade too dark-.” 

Mary can’t tell what’s more offensive: Mrs. Blossom’s open hostility or Clifford’s assumption that she agreed with everything he said. She’s barely gotten a word in edgewise since she got in his car. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have opinions. And has her hair been the source of his interest all this time? He asked her out because he thought she color-coordinated better with that hall of family portraits? She sniffs, indignant.

“Then force her to dye it, dear. I’ve had it up to here with your waxing rhapsodic about this girl.”

“And besides, Penelope is creepy. I heard her telling Sierra that the most romantic place to lose your virginity is a graveyard.”

“Well, then, isn’t it convenient that we have our own private, family graveyard-“

Mary opens the next door, revealing an office with-voila-a white enamel telephone. She quickly dials the Andrews’ number, trying to ignore the stuffed red stag head that appears to be watching her from the opposite wall and the stuffed red fox on the ground at her feet, posed as though preparing to leap.

One ring. Two.

Then, “Hello? Andrews residence.”

“Fred, it’s Mary. I need a favor. Can you come pick me up from Thornhill right away? My parents aren’t home and-“

“Hey, hey, it’s no problem. I’ll come get you. 7 minutes, tops.” She didn’t think she‘d been so transparent about her worry and impatience, but Fred’s soft tone is clearly intended to soothe.

“Yeah,” she says on a relieved exhale, “Meet me at the front gate.”  
——————-

By the time Fred pulls up to the gate, Mary is breathing hard from running through the manor and across the lawn. The rain has calmed to a drizzle, and she welcomes the cool wetness against her flushed skin. She bounds into the station wagon, smiling at the sight of Fred’s friendly, open face.

“Boy, am I happy to see you.”

“I am a dreamboat,” he smirks. 

She snorts and reaches over to turn up the radio: “Thunder Road”, as usual. She inhales slowly, then exhales, savoring the everyday peacefulness of the moment: Fred tapping his calloused fingers against the steering wheel as he sings under his breathe, “Roll down the window / Let the wind blow back your hair,” the yellow Labrador figurine nodding on the dashboard, the faint but ever-present “eau de sophomore boy”: a combination of weed and cigarette smoke, Old Spice, and French fry grease. 

They hit a pothole and she automatically turns to make sure Fred’s guitar is safe in the back. It’s not in its case, but at least it’s cushioned by a camo sleeping bag and a pile of wrinkled flannels. FP’s tooled leather belt has been inexplicably tossed around the neck of the guitar. As the car jolts, a Colt 45 bottle and some quarry gravel roll along the carpet; Mary watches as they hit a mud-encrusted boot lying on a paperback copy of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.

Any other day, Mary would be halfway through a lecture on the importance of proper hygiene by now (she’s made it a personal mission to make sure the boys don’t die of tetanus), but today, she’s comforted by the familiar mess. It may not be the fanciest ride, this wagon. But it’s well-loved, and it’s got personality. The good kind, the Fred kind. Not the Blossom kind.

“What did you guys get up to back there? It’s a sty,” she laughs. 

Fred sighs. “FP’s old man ain’t too happy about his grades...but you know Mr. Jones. If it wasn’t that, it’d be something else. So FP’s been crashing with me some nights. I let him keep his stuff in the Shaggin Wagon.”

Mary’s brows furrow. “Gosh, Fred, I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad. Is that why? With his knuckles?”

Fred scoffs. “No. Well, sorta. After the fight with his Dad, he got blind-drunk on Boone’s Farm and punched a cement wall. I made him clean and bandage it, don’t worry. And he promised not to drink more than a few beers unless I’m there, so I think he’ll be ok.”

Mary puts her hand on his shoulder, “He will. We’ll make sure of it. And Fred...I know he appreciates your help.”

Fred shrugs, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Thanks, Mar. So what’s going on with you? I’m guessing it wasn’t a dream date?”

“A nightmare,” Mary says. “Thornhill is, by far, the freakiest place I’ve ever been.”

“They didn’t hurt you or anything, did they?”

“They’re rude and creepy, is all. I probably shouldn’t even have bothered to call. I could’ve handled it myself. But...thanks for coming to get me, anyway”

“Mary,” Fred says, pulling into a parking spot between their houses and turning to look at her intently, “You can always call. If you need me, I’m here for you. No questions asked.” His mouth quirks. “Besides, if they were rude enough to make Saint Mary run, they must’ve been pretty awful.”

She laughs. “Stop calling me that!” The name began as one of Alice’s jabs, but the boys use it to tease her when she gets a 100 on a test or gives what they call a “Mom speech.”

“Hey, you deserve it for putting up with us, some days. You’re a good person, Mary. You work so hard. You’re way out of Clifford Blossom’s league. Someday, you’re gonna date a guy who really loves and deserves you. It’s going to be such a perfect date you won’t even remember this one ever happened.”

She touches his shoulder. “Aww, Fred. I really appreciate your saying that. I mean it.” 

Somehow he intuited her embarrassing girly secret: she’s disappointed her very first date was worse than a dud, and she’s worried she won’t find out what a real romantic date is like anytime soon. She’d been trying to suppress the feeling in favor of more important ones (being horrified by American history or being grossed out by Clifford Blossom). But somehow Fred saw through her, and he knew just how to make it better.

“Maybe I’m too hard on you, Fred. I don’t think I give you enough credit.” She smiles at him mischievously. “And maybe I’m too hard on the Shaggin’ Wagon.”

Fred’s jaw drops, and he stares at her in delighted shock.

“Did you just-?”

“Yeah. But that’s it. I’m never calling it that again.”  
—————————————————————  
Riverdale High School

Tuesday

The next morning, Mary applies a third layer of concealer to her under-eye circles, only serving to make them look cakey. Intending to blot away some makeup, she reaches for a paper towel, but the dispenser is empty. She goes into a stall to find some tissue to use instead, but ends up staring blankly at the tissue in her hands and then at the closed lid of the toilet, finally taking a seat with a dejected sigh.

She is not in the mood for anymore nonsense today. She’s barely had a moment’s rest since Fred dropped her home yesterday afternoon, even though all she wanted to do when she got through the front door was lay on her couch and watch Mary Poppins, eating Rocky Road out of the carton.

But she knew that it was important to finish the article. She owed it to the town to spread the word about its dark history. And she owed it to herself to purge her brain of everything Blossom. Otherwise, she feared recurring nightmares about a ghost army of taxidermied animals and Clifford holding General Pickens’ sword. 

So Mary stayed up until 3 am writing an article, “Josephine Blossom & Riverdale’s Artistic Renaissance,” and an op-ed, “Riverdale’s Shame: Blossom, Pickens, and the Massacre of the Uktena.” When she rushed to Sierra’s locker to show her before homeroom, Sierra had skimmed both and summarily dropped the Pickens section into the trash. 

“I have to worry about my reputation,” she explained, palms facing out in a placating gesture. “I can’t rock the boat yet, not until I have some power. The art stuff is way better for the Jubilee anyway. It’s a celebration!” Mary was disappointed but too tired to object, retreating to the ladies’ room instead.

Now, the door to the bathroom slams open, jolting her from her thoughts. Two girls enter the room in the midst of a whispered argument that gets louder as soon as the door closes. Mary immediately shuts the door to her stall. Please leave, she begs silently. 

“If I have to overhear you mention your precious reputation one more time, I’ll-,” says the first girl, whose voice Mary does not recognize. All that’s visible of her beneath the stall door are her black leggings and combat boots.

“You know I have to think about my career! You know how important that is to me! If I have any chance of becoming the first black female mayor in the state, I have to keep a serious reputation. I can’t be seen dallying. And I especially cannot be seen dallying with a girl.”

Mary remains still, her feet lifted so they won’t notice she’s here. She’s barely breathing. Sierra had a girlfriend? I had no idea...Do I even know anyone in this town at all? 

“How dare you? Are you really going to call everything that happened between us “dallying”?”

“Come on, Penelope.” 

Mary jaw drops. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Sierra continues. “We both knew it could never be anything long-term! We needed to...blow off steam, and we were able to help each other do that. I’ll always care for you as a friend, Pen.”

Mary feels a swell of pity for her elementary school tormenter.

“Fuck off,” Penelope shouts, kicking the wall. “All you care about is power. Well, you’re going to regret throwing me away, just you wait. Someday, I’ll be even more powerful than you.”

Penelope elbows her aside, slamming the door. There’s a moment of silence as Sierra stands at the mirror. She lets out a shuddering breath. Finally, she exits. 

Mary waits a beat and returns to the counter. She’s too overwhelmed to contemplate the implications of that argument. It feels like Riverdale has gone topsy-turvy this year, and it’s giving her the spins.

Instead, she focuses on setting her appearance to rights. She uses a damp tissue to remove some of the extra concealer and then applies a coat of bright coral lipstick. She’s dressed up today in a peach sweater and a long pink A-line skirt, hoping the pretty clothes would distract from the pallor of her face. She squares her shoulders and gives her reflection a nod. Not my best, she thinks. But I’ll do.

She strides through the crowd of students and takes her seat in Biology next to Hermione, who whispers, “Cool lipstick.” 

“Thanks,” Mary whispers back, glancing at Hermione’s turquoise dress, which is covered in geometric shapes the same shade of bright coral. “You can borrow it later if you want.”

As Professor Flutesnute gathers slides for the projector, Mary sees Clifford hand Penelope a red leatherbound book. “It’s Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein from our family library,” he says. “I thought it might appeal to you.” 

Penelope smiles, sharp and self-satisfied, and Mary turns away, feeling a little sick. Does no one in this town date because they actually like one other? Is everyone motivated by greed or lust or spite or devotion to color scheme?

Then, a paper football bounces onto her desk. She looks over her shoulder to acknowledge Fred’s crooked grin and unfolds the page.

It says, in Fred’s spiky penmanship:

THE FREDHEADS  
BATTLE OF THE BANDS SET LIST

Help us pick a top 3?

Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen  
Born in the USA - Bruce Springsteen  
Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen  
Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out - Bruce Springsteen  
Welcome to the Jungle - Guns ‘n’ Roses  
Ace of Spades - Motörhead  
Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana  
Drain You - Nirvana  
Saint Mary - The Fredheads  
Working on the Quarry - The Fredheads  
Boys in a Van - The Fredheads

Mary’s Picks:

1.  
2.  
3.

Mary smile is so big that she has to cover her mouth so Professor Flutesnoot won’t notice that she isn’t paying attention. Good old Fred, she thinks. Everyone else in town may be falling apart, but at least he seems more solid than ever.

In the number one spot, in her loopy cursive, she writes, “The Fredheads - Saint Mary.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Dudley Marjoribanks, Baron Tweedmouth is a real person, a Scottish peer who developed the Golden Retriever dog breed. Also, his daughter, Ishbel, was a famous suffragette. I couldn’t resist including him because his name is the most ridiculous I’ve ever heard outside of the Archie Comics universe.
> 
> 2) Mary’s outfits are modeled after Donna Hayward's from Twin Peaks, and Sierra’s outfits are copied from Audrey Horne. Hermione’s look is based on a dress from the cartoon Jem & the Holograms.
> 
> 3) The painting Mary notices in the foyer with the demon sitting on the woman’s chest is The Nightmare by Henri Fuseli, which canonically hangs at Thornhill on the show.
> 
> 4) Sierra/Penelope was inspired by an Instagram photo of Nathalie Boltt, Robin Givens, and Vanessa Morgan that Boltt captioned saying, “If Penelope & Mayor McCoy had a love child, it’d be Toni.” I recognize there are some ugly implications to the whole “Homophobe who is secretly gay” trope, but I’m choosing to set them aside for the sake of fiction. I hope you don’t mind!
> 
> Thank you so much to anyone who reads this (I’m anticipating a hit count of 2, since it’s probably the most niche couple I could possibly write for this fandom)! Please let me know what you think (I’m open to criticism) via kudos or comments!


End file.
